Amadeus
by Wilusa
Summary: AU: A very different resolution of the "Ahriman" story, in which MacLeod had to combat a Zoroastrian demon.
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: _Highlander_ and its canon characters are the property of Davis/Panzer Productions or a successor corporation; no copyright infringement is intended.

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 _ **Note**_ : _This fic assumes the reader is familiar with the HL:TS Ahriman Trilogy: "Archangel," "Avatar," and "Armageddon" - or at least, with "Archangel."_

 _I realize there have been dozens - if not hundreds! - of fanfics written over the years, to provide alternate endings to the Ahriman story. But I don't remember any of their plots, other than the one I myself used in my "Origins" series. So I won't, at least consciously, be cribbing anyone else's ideas. And this telling of the tale is very different from my previous one (in a fic titled "Awakening,"_ _with followup references and explanations scattered throughout the rest of the series_ _)._

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"Sometimes I think _all_ of us have lost our minds."

Methos pondered that. One minute stretched into two.

Then he asked, "Do you mean you, me, and MacLeod, or the whole world?"

Joe Dawson's response was a shrug.

The two men were standing at a guardrail, looking out at the ocean.

Not the familiar Atlantic or Pacific. The Indian Ocean. Even Methos was seeing it for the first time. And he couldn't help imagining this guardrail - on the southernmost tip of the Malay Peninsula - marked the _edge_ of that possibly-crazy world. What lay beyond, only a limitless expanse of water...

 _Did MacLeod stand in this very spot, when he first arrived in Johor? Did it strike him this way, too?_

 _Or are we chasing after another false lead...refusing to admit that MacLeod is long-dead?_

Right now, they were working up their courage before checking out that lead.

Joe said miserably, "All of this is my fault. If I hadn't practically collapsed in your arms, when we found Mac after he'd killed Richie all those years ago, you could have gone after him! Even if you couldn't have caught up with him before he took off in his car, you could have followed him in mine - I'd left the keys in it. I had my cell phone, I could have called the Watchers for help..."

Methos shook his head. "No. I was as stunned as you were. And I'm sure I wouldn't have left you alone with Richie's body, even if you were urging me to.

"But I should have realized, before I did, that MacLeod was sane - at least _then_ \- and the threat from Ahriman was real."

Joe thought about that, then said, "Even if we do find Mac, and he's sane, I don't know how you expect him to be able to read those ancient records the Watchers gave us. Not when you couldn't do it. You're five thousand years old, Mac only four hundred!"

"I'm not sure he'd be able to decipher them," Methos admitted. "But I think there's a good chance he would. For two reasons.

"First, he's always had a gift for mastering languages - and recognizing cognates. If he checked the oldest languages scholars _can_ translate, he might be able to figure out how the words evolved from words in older ones. Sort of reasoning backwards, to make educated guesses about older word meanings.

"Second, he might be able, now, to understand knowledge he received through the previous Champion's Quickening. Knowledge passed from one Champion to the next - even if that hermit didn't really understand it himself.

"And no, I don't think that means he'd someday have to let the next Champion take _his_ head! Hopefully, he'd be able to _tell_ him what he needs to know."

 _Assuming this planet will still support life. The assholes in power seem hell-bent on destroying it. Courtesy of Ahriman, I'm sure!_

He looked at his watch. "Okay, it's noon. Time to get to that restaurant."

He didn't have to add _and meet our contact_. That was their sole reason for being there.

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After MacLeod disappeared, they'd made a bad mistake. He'd asked Methos to take his head; and when Methos refused to do it, he'd walked off without his sword. Still believing he'd had a mental breakdown, they'd thought he'd try to find some other Immortal to kill him. They'd enlisted the Watchers to help in the search for him - hopefully, to prevent his being killed, but at the very least, to report it. All the Watchers were given recent photos - though most were already familiar with Duncan MacLeod.

But there were no reported sightings. None.

Methos and Joe had kept both his barge and his home in Seacouver just as he'd left them, clinging to hope that he might return to one or the other.

Many years later, when the world collapsed into chaos, they'd realized he might not have been insane. At least, not at the outset - though he might have been _driven_ insane by his having been tricked into killing Richie.

And they'd come up with a new idea. After Methos refused to take his head, he might have decided he didn't want to die - wanted instead to survive and suffer, to punish himself for having killed Richie. So how, without a sword, might he have managed to do that?

By so _frightening_ other Immortals that they wouldn't _want_ to take his head?

Might he also have changed his appearance, so they wouldn't know - if it mattered to them - that he was Duncan MacLeod?

Joe had appealed to the Watchers again - this time, asking whether any Immortals they'd been observing had encountered a very strange, scary, possibly unrecognizable Immortal, in 1997 or later.

And they'd hit paydirt.

There were multiple reports of a filthy man with a tangle of hair and beard, clad in rags - surely demented, the Watchers had thought, because he'd been howling like an animal! The Immortals had backed away from him, and the Watchers had never been sure whether he himself was Immortal. But all the reports included this puzzling detail: when the man wasn't howling, he was ranting about something valuable having been stolen from him while he was asleep.

"He must have been thinking of his sword," Methos had told Joe. "Even if he didn't want to use it, he still wanted to _have_ it. And he was so confused that he didn't realize he'd left it with us."

That wasn't encouraging.

And the most recent reports of those encounters were ten years old.

But today, Methos's otherwise unnecessary raincoat was concealing _two_ swords: his and MacLeod's.

x

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Their "contacts," in most cases, were Watchers - so leery of communications in this dangerous era that they insisted on seeing the aging Joe Dawson in person. In the flesh, not on a computer screen!

Methos had never been "outed" as an Immortal. And as he'd hoped, none of the current generation of Watchers remembered the "Adam Pierson" who'd been in Research back in the Nineties. But he still couldn't risk using that name. They _were_ aware a vaguely described Immortal had used the name "Benjamin Adams." So he was now "Dr. Seth Keenan" - a surname meaning "ancient" - Joe's physician and friend, who insisted on accompanying him on these tiring junkets. The Watchers had been told that Joe trusted him completely; he knew all about Immortals, and about _them_. They had no choice but to accept it.

This case was different. The "contact" was a young man who'd never heard of either Immortals or Watchers...but might be able to confirm, or refute, the eerie tales that had been told about a certain Buddhist monastery.

Might actually have seen a living Duncan MacLeod.

Five minutes after they'd seated themselves in the restaurant, a youth entered, looked around...and headed straight for their table.

Methos quickly got to his feet and offered a handshake. Noting, as he did, that the young man appeared to be of Chinese descent. That fit with what they'd been told: most Malaysian Buddhists were ethnically Chinese.

And most Malaysians, whatever their religion, could understand - and speak, if only as a second language - English. Thankfully, it proved to be true in this case. Methos knew enough Malaysian that he could have muddled through, but he was on much firmer ground with English.

After they'd exchanged introductions and ordered a seafood dinner - which Joe announced he was paying for - the young Malaysian explained that he'd entered that nearby monastery as a novice. He'd heard strange stories about it, and dismissed them. But then he'd _seen_...something so shocking that he, like a dozen novices before him, had packed his bags and left.

The seafood dinner arrived...and went untouched.

After telling the travelers his story, the youth made it clear that he'd only agreed to do it because they'd said they wanted to _help_ the man they were looking for. Having met them, he was sure of it. And he wouldn't accept any kind of gratuity, beyond the dinner he hadn't eaten! In fact, he gave them a hastily written "introduction" to the lama in charge of the monastery, vouching for their character and good intentions.

He left, and Methos and Joe sat staring at one another for a long minute.

Methos said, "It's a stone's throw from here." He barely recognized his own voice.

Joe nodded. "Yes. We may not like what we find, but..."

When he seemed unable to go on, Methos finished the thought. "For better or worse, we're at the end of our journey."


	2. Chapter 2

The monastery wasn't literally "a stone's throw" from the restaurant. But they would have considered it walking distance - even for Joe - if they hadn't harbored the hope that when they left it, they'd have someone else with them.

They didn't discuss that - or anything else - during the short, tense drive. Neither of them spoke until they were standing on the monastery's doorstep.

Then Joe asked, "Can you sense another Immortal?"

Methos shook his head. "No. But with a building this size, that doesn't prove anything."

He rang the bell. An ornate bell, but one that served the same purpose as doorbells everywhere.

The monk who answered, like the former novice, understood and spoke English.

Methos explained that they were searching for a friend - a very strange friend, but one they cherished. Certain rumors had led them to think he might have taken shelter in this monastery. And then...

He produced the note from the ex-novice. He didn't know whether it would be a help or a hindrance - might the monks so resent the youth's having left that they'd turn away anyone he'd befriended?

No. He evidently _was_ held in high esteem! After reading the note, the monk immediately escorted them into the building, and took them straight to the lama. Methos was glad he'd already learned what the monks' superior should be called; Buddhism in Malaysia was an eclectic mixture of traditions.

The lama was a kindly-looking middle-aged man, wearing a robe indistinguishable from the monk's. He also read the note, then led them into what was probably his office - though it didn't include anything even as "modern" as a typewriter. Methos noted that he took care to close the door before seating himself behind his desk, and gesturing to them to take equally comfortable seats. Then he said, in English so clear that it might have been his native tongue, "Yes, gentlemen?"

Methos and Joe exchanged glances - and as they'd tentatively agreed, it was Joe who spoke up first.

"You know our names, of course, thanks to the young man who wrote that note. I'm Joe Dawson, an American, ordinary as they come. I need the cane I'm using because I lost both legs fighting in Vietnam. And you can see that I look the age I should, for someone who'd fought in that war."

He nodded toward Methos, who said, "I'm Seth Keenan. A physician - I really am licensed to practice medicine. But I'll admit that I've used other names...I don't know where I was born...and I'm older than I look."

The lama understandably frowned.

"The man we're looking for is named Duncan MacLeod..."

No reaction.

"We think you know he can 'die,' and come back to life."

A flicker of an eyebrow.

"There's something else about him that you may not know, if he hasn't told you. He never ages. For however long he lives - and yes, there is a way he can truly die! - his body will be that of a thirty-year-old."

Now the lama was startled. "We haven't known him long enough to -" He broke off, realizing he'd acknowledged knowing the man.

"I'm the same...race...as he is," Methos went on. "There's no other way to describe it. We call ourselves Immortals. We're certainly human, but Immortals may look like any of the known races. None of us know our parentage. Many believe we're all foundlings, and all _sterile_. But no one can be sure. We can only be killed permanently by beheading.

"Duncan MacLeod is over four hundred years old. And I'm...much older."

The lama's expression didn't indicate the shock - or disbelief - that might have been expected from someone hearing such a revelation. He'd listened intently; and after thinking for a moment, he nodded.

"Knowing as much as I already do about our _guest_ ," he said slowly, "I can't rule anything out as impossible. You knew that, of course.

"And you told me all you did about your kind as a way of letting me know you're better qualified to care for him than we are."

At that point, Joe looked alarmed. "Wait a minute. It would just be the two of us! And if he's in as bad a condition as we've been hearing, we _wouldn't_ be better able to 'care for him'!"

 _You, no,_ Methos thought grimly. _Me, yes._

Aloud, he said, "We won't know anything for sure until we see him. On the one hand, he may not even recognize us. But on the other, recognizing close friends may in itself be enough to help him.

"However it goes, we're extremely grateful for all you've done. Even just for keeping him safely indoors during the fall monsoons."

The lama gave a faint smile - and for a moment, his eyes appeared to be misty. "Long ago, when he first came here, I'm sure we did succeed in helping him, in a small way!

"He doesn't talk at all now. But back then, when he did, he spoke fluent Malaysian."

Methos gave a bemused shake of his head. _Of course he spoke fluent Malaysian! Still Duncan MacLeod, in spite of everything..._

"He was constantly wailing about something 'irreplaceable' having been stolen while he slept -"

Methos glanced at Joe, and knew they were thinking the same thing. _So it definitely was MacLeod who terrorized all those other Immortals._

"We decided to try to help him by buying him another. Of course" - a second sad smile - "we had to buy two!"

Methos almost choked. He'd just begun trying to imagine monks buying a sword. He couldn't. But... _two?_

"Wh-what was it?" he and Joe asked, simultaneously.

"Oh, I'm sorry - I assumed you knew. It was a glove."

 _ **A glove?**_

The friends locked eyes. It was Joe who found his voice, and said, "Oh my God. When he walked away from us, he took one of Richie's gloves, remember?"

"Y-yes. _That_ was what he cared so much about! And if he was sleeping among people like hobos...and they saw how he treasured it...someone _may_ have taken it while he slept, just to be cruel!"

Realizing the lama didn't know what they were talking about, Methos turned to him and explained, "Richie Ryan was another close friend of ours, a young Immortal. He really was only twenty-two years old. It's a complicated story, but the bottom line is that MacLeod was tricked into beheading him. He blames himself. But given the circumstances, he shouldn't!"

"That does make it more understandable," the lama said softly. "The poor man...

"We didn't lie to him, try to convince him the glove we were giving him was the one he'd lost. We suggested that maybe he could _pretend_ it was, and he'd still have something to cling to. He accepted that. And he was so grateful! In tears, because people had wanted to help him.

"Almost a decade later, he still clings to that glove."

Methos and Joe needed some time to absorb that. The lama understood, and waited for them to look at him again.

Then Methos made himself ask, "Wh-what else should we know?"

"Uh...I'm not sure how much you already do know..." For the first time, the lama seemed uncomfortable. But he took a deep breath, and continued.

"I'm afraid it may seem that we... _haven't_ given our guest...I'm sorry, I mean 'Mr. MacLeod'...good care. But everything we've done for him...or, rather, _haven't_ done for him...has been, not merely his choice, but his _insistence_.

"F-for years, he's done nothing but...sit on the floor. Huddled in a corner. He...refuses to eat or drink. Or talk. Or _bathe_. Or change his clothes...anything!

"Believe me, we've tried. Tried to coax him to eat or drink. Tried to force-feed him. Tried to clean him. But he always fought us off, while he was strong enough. And at _all_ times, he screamed and struggled as if we were torturing him. So we finally had to give up, and let him torture _himself_.

"He...just sits there and... _starves to death!_

"Time after time. I th-think...he...tries not to moan. He just suffers and 'dies,' then comes back to life and does it all over again!"

By now, the lama was shaking his head - and fighting back tears. "I'm s-sorry. I just don't know what else we could have done..."

Methos was appalled. _I hadn't wanted to believe it might be this bad..._ But he hastened to assure the lama, "There _was_ nothing else! _I'm_ sorry MacLeod's friends weren't here for him, and you and your monks have had to endure all this."

"Right." That came from an ashen-faced Joe. "The two of us share the blame, because we didn't believe him years ago, when he was telling us -" He broke off, then finished the sentence with a vague "things we should have believed."

Methos knew he had to say something else, quickly. So he told the lama, "Your novice had seen some of it - the 'dying' and coming back to life - but he didn't know it was taking place _constantly_. Once again, I'm sorry!

"But we can't decide what to do now until Joe and I spend some time with MacLeod."

The lama nodded. "Of course. But will you wait here for a few minutes, please, while I talk to the monk who's...observing him?"

Two voices echoed, "Of course."

After the lama had left, Joe asked, "Do you think we have an obligation to tell him about Ahriman?"

"I don't know. Right now, I can't think about _anything_ beyond -"

"Yeah. I understand."

The lama returned after five minutes. "It's...just about what I thought," he said heavily. "Mr. MacLeod is...close to 'death.' It would probably be best - for all concerned - if you wait for about two hours. Then he should be newly alive, in the best possible physical condition."

As both Methos and Joe quickly nodded, he added, "But I can't make any promises about his _mind_."


	3. Chapter 3

Two hours later, as they began walking down the corridor they'd been told led to MacLeod's room, Methos finally did sense another Immortal.

But just as he was telling Joe, "I can sense him now," they heard a muffled shriek.

"Oh, damn!" Methos wanted to kick himself. "It never occurred to me that he'd be sensing me too, and it might upset him!"

"I hadn't thought of that either." But after a moment's pause, Joe went on, "Hopefully, he'll recognize you, and then he'll calm down. If he isn't capable of recognizing us, he probably would have been just as upset at seeing me."

They both took deep breaths before they entered the room.

Which was probably a good thing, because they hadn't been prepared for the stench.

 _Undoubtedly just sweat_ , Methos realized. _Can't be piss, shit, or vomit, if he never eats or drinks anything. But it's a decade's worth of sweat!_

And the room was small, without a window. Methos had no way of knowing whether it was a typical monk's cell. But it contained absolutely nothing except one bare light-bulb at ceiling level, a straight-backed chair - presumably for any "observing" monk - and the hideous creature huddled in a corner, on the floor.

Much as he hated to acknowledge it, Methos knew he never would have recognized this... _thing_ as Duncan MacLeod. It - _no,_ _ **he!**_ _admit it!_ \- was semi-clad in the badly worn remnants of a monk's robe. His feet were bare. And the tangle of hair and beard, almost totally obscuring his face, had grown to a length Methos would have thought impossible. The hair probably weighed more than the rest of his body!

His wild-looking eyes were darting back and forth between the two - did he see them as "intruders"?

And he was still clutching that _glove_. With both hands.

Methos composed himself sufficiently to murmur to an equally stunned Joe, "You sit in the chair. I'm going to get down on my knees, to get closer to him."

Joe nodded and complied, without saying a word. He looked as if he didn't feel _able_ to say a word.

Methos did get down on his knees - though it wasn't easy, encumbered as he was by his raincoat and the weapons it concealed.

Then he tried - little by little, and gently - to edge closer to the cowering MacLeod.

"MacLeod?" he said cautiously. "Do you recognize me? It's Methos. Remember me? And Joe Dawson is with me. I know you remember Joe..."

He was sure now that he saw recognition in those eyes. But fear, as well.

In a voice raspy from long disuse, MacLeod said, "Go. Away." He clutched the glove more tightly to his chest.

"You know we're friends, MacLeod. We can't just go away. And I don't think you really want us to."

"Go! Away!"

"MacLeod, I'm glad you have that glove to hold onto. But you know it isn't really Richie's. Will you hold it in just one hand for a few minutes, and let me hold your other hand? It may feel good to have a real, live _friend_ holding your hand."

"No!"

"Would it feel better if you could free one hand to hold some _thing_ that's really _yours?_ I have something like that. Don't be alarmed! I'm just getting a _thing_ that's meant a lot to you."

He reached under his raincoat and carefully pulled out MacLeod's katana. Holding it so his intent was clear - suggesting that MacLeod take its hilt.

But MacLeod recoiled in apparent horror. And Methos could see out of the corner of his eye that Joe was becoming uneasy.

 _Okay, I should have realized he'd associate the sword with Richie's death. I'll have to move this along more quickly. Forgive me, Joe, for not having told you what I intended!_

"MacLeod...Joe and I want to take you home. To Paris - remember how you've always loved Paris?"

 _Of course, I haven't heard any news lately. I hope it's not in ruins._

"You have a choice to make. Either you agree to come back to Paris with us, or...I'll do _what you_ _wanted_ _me to do_ , the last time we saw each other. I'll put an end to your suffering by taking your head - here and now, with your own sword."

Joe was screaming, "No!"

And MacLeod had dropped the glove. He was also babbling, "No, no!" as he scuttled away from Methos, both hands and arms raised to protect his head.

"I don't _want_ to kill you, MacLeod! But the last time we were together, you wanted me to. Why don't you want it now?"

MacLeod gasped out, "Make you...what I am!"

"You mean... _what you've let yourself become_."

"Yes!"

"Yes, it might. But I'm willing to risk that. Because it's also possible it might make me the Champion! And _someone_ has to deal with Ahriman!"

The frenzied MacLeod protested, _"Too late...too late!"_

And Methos sat back on his haunches, feeling the first _relief_ he'd known that day.

After he'd caught his breath, he said, "You think Ahriman could only have been stopped before the turn of the millennium?"

"Yes!"

"We - Joe and I - have reason to believe he _can_ still be stopped. So...will you try to pull yourself together, and listen to what we have to say?"

"Y-yes."

Methos felt that at that moment, he was taking a "risk" by looking at Joe. But he did it. As expected, he saw an icy glare. But then Joe sighed, and mumbled, "At least it worked."

And then, after a beat: "Would you really have done it?"

"If necessary...yes."

x

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MacLeod was still far from "normal." But he was able to sit quietly, and listen to what his friends were telling him. They hoped he understood.

Speaking slowly and carefully - as if he'd almost forgotten how - he'd said, "I'm glad...someone...may still be able to...defeat Ahriman. But it...can't be me. I'm just...a _wreck_.

"Maybe you...should kill me?" He'd addressed that to Joe - who couldn't receive, and be harmed by, his Quickening.

Both men had said firmly, "No!"

"It's true, MacLeod," Methos acknowledged now, "that the world seems to be going to hell in a handbasket. But that's actually recent! So Ahriman apparently can't bring about change too quickly.

"And at about the same time the world went haywire, something extraordinary happened, that had special meaning for _us_.

"Can you tell me the name of your barge?"

That apparent change of subject would have caught anyone by surprise. But after floundering for a minute or so, MacLeod came up with "Nobile."

"That's right, that's what it always was," Methos agreed. "Italian for 'noble,' right? That was its name when you bought it, and you never changed it.

"Since you've been, uh, _away_ , Joe and I have kept the barge where it was, exactly _as_ it was.

"But we recently discovered the name on the barge had changed! Now it's _'Amadeus'_ \- a name meaning _'beloved of God'!_ We didn't change it or authorize anyone else to change it. And your longtime 'neighbors' have told us not only that none of them changed it, but that they would have seen and reported anyone who did."

"And after that," Joe chimed in, "we remembered that in the past, both of us had experienced fleeting moments when we _imagined_ we'd seen the name 'Amadeus' there! Hard to explain forgetting something like that...but we had."

Methos picked up the tale again. "Personally, I'm not a believer in the Christian 'God.' But the barge is associated with _you_ , MacLeod, and _someone or something_ is sending a message that _your mission isn't over_."

Joe said, "I do believe in God, and I think that's who it is."

MacLeod was trembling. But Methos couldn't read his expression, if only because of all the accursed _hair_.

"I didn't just tell you this at the start," he continued, "because while we think of it as - well, a _miracle!_ \- it isn't anything we can _prove_.

"We did bring a photo to show you -"

Joe was already opening his valise. He handed Methos a large color photo of the barge, which clearly showed the name "Amadeus."

"Like I said," Methos repeated, "I can't claim it proves anything! For all you _know_ , one or both of us may have had it changed. But we both swear we didn't."

Since MacLeod made no move to reach for it, Methos held it up in front of him. At an angle at which neither Methos himself nor Joe could see anything but the back of it.

Methos was saying hopefully, "Maybe _you'll_ have one of those memories of having seen it before, too -"

But MacLeod let out another _shriek_. Stared at the photo, wide-eyed - and _kept_ staring, as if he was mesmerized.

No one else dared to move.

Methos wouldn't have been able to say whether one minute passed, or five. But the spell was broken when MacLeod finally looked away from the photo, and up into _his_ eyes.

And he knew at once that despite outward appearances, he was seeing not the broken man who'd huddled in the corner, but the hero who'd saved the world from Kronos.

In a voice that was awestruck - but otherwise his old, "normal" voice - MacLeod said, "I just witnessed another _miracle!_ I know you couldn't have seen exactly what I did. But did either of you see any part of it? An unusual light?"

Methos and Joe both told him they hadn't seen any "light," but were aware of a difference in _him_.

He didn't seem surprised.

"When I first looked at the photo," he told them, "the lettering on the barge read 'Amadeus,' like you'd said. But while I was looking at it, it wavered, and turned back into 'Nobile'! Still wavering, as if it was undecided about something. Then it turned into 'Amadeus' again. But this time, all the letters were _glowing_ , with the brightest light I've ever seen. And all that brilliant light was _reaching out directly to me!_

"So I know you were right, Methos. My mission isn't over.

"And...words can't express my gratitude to the two of you, for having come all this way to find me..."

Suddenly, all three men were in tears. And they were all on their feet (Joe's, of course, being prosthetic), sharing an embrace. Despite MacLeod's murmured apologies for how he smelled.

x

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x

The door had been closed throughout his friends' visit. But they knew the monks must have heard some alarming sounds. So when MacLeod strode confidently to that door and opened it, they weren't surprised to find a dozen monks - and the lama himself - waiting in the corridor.

There were more tears, more embraces. And some smiles...especially from Methos, when he heard MacLeod talking to the monks in Malaysian.

Whatever he was telling them, it wasn't about Ahriman. He'd decided there was no need to share that dangerous knowledge. It was safer for the monks that they not know.

It was quickly agreed that MacLeod would have a long-overdue bath, a much-needed haircut and shave, and an even more essential _meal_ before leaving with his friends. The only clothing he could be given was a monk's robe - which would suffice until they reached the inn where the friends were staying, and they could find some of their clothes that would fit him.

In an especially emotional moment, he told the lama he meant to keep - and treasure - the glove they'd given him.

"I know it's not really Richie's glove..." He paused, and Methos thought _He's having a painful memory_. But then he went on to say, "It's important in itself, because it will always remind me of how wonderfully kind you were to me when I was in need."

Before he left for that bath, he looked at Methos and murmured, "I sensed you..."

Methos didn't understand. "You mean...in some way other than the usual? Did you 'sense' that I was searching for you?"

But MacLeod seemed, really, to be talking to himself. "I sensed you...now...and _then_..."

Methos had forgotten that cryptic remark by the time Joe slapped him on the shoulder and asked, with a grin, " _Now_ do you believe in God?"

"No," he replied, just as cheerfully. "But I do believe in _someone or something._

"And most of all, _I believe in Duncan MacLeod_."


	4. Chapter 4

"It looks so...ordinary, if it wasn't for the meaning of the name. No one would guess it hadn't been engraved in the usual way..."

MacLeod's companions didn't ask, "But you _are_ sure it wasn't?" They didn't need to ask.

But he _was_ seeing the name "Amadeus," on the actual barge, for the first time. And he was just as awestruck - however quietly - as he'd been in Malaysia, when he'd looked at a photo and the word had virtually _leapt out_ _at him_ , to insist he acknowledge who he was.

 _If we'd gotten here a half-hour later, I wouldn't have been able to see it tonight. It would have been too dark..._

He wasn't expecting any further miracles.

They'd just completed the long trip back from Malaysia. Most of it spent in the air, of course; but even so, he'd learned about - and seen for himself - way too much of this tumultuous era. At first he'd blamed himself, sure it would have been different if he'd confronted Ahriman when he should have, back in 1997. But then he'd remembered the reason he hadn't done that was that he'd let himself be consumed by guilt. And he'd vowed not to let it happen again.

Even while they were traveling, he'd been able to access the ancient records that had been collected by the Watchers. And they'd told him a great deal...most of which he was keeping to himself.

Joe had been living in Paris all these years. So when they arrived, they'd been able to pick up his car. And their first stop had been at the cemetery. MacLeod had asked to see Richie's grave.

He'd thanked Joe for all he and the Watchers had done...retrieving the body before anyone else could have spotted it, and providing a decent burial.

"I've given it a lot of thought," he'd told Joe and Methos. "And I'm sure that if you hadn't walked in on me, I would have taken the body, buried it in secret somewhere, and fled. Probably abandoning both our swords. I wouldn't have wanted to face anyone I knew, ever again."

"I can't imagine what we would have thought," Joe had mused, "if both of you just disappeared!"

"Same here," Methos had said. "I have no idea whether I would or wouldn't have come to believe Ahriman was real."

They'd arrived at the river at dusk. MacLeod was surprised by how little the area had changed.

And despite all the good memories it held...despite the assurance given him by the new, "miraculous" name of his barge...he was constantly aware of its being the site of his first, long-ago encounter with Ahriman.

That, in fact, was why he had come.

But the others didn't know that. Joe said kindly, "Do you not want to go aboard the barge yet, Mac? Everything's as you left it. But if it makes you uncomfortable, you're welcome to stay at my place. Tonight, or for as long as you want."

Methos added, "I'll be crashing there too."

"Thank you," he replied, "but no. Can I ask you for another kind of favor, Joe?"

"Of course!"

"Uh, maybe you should wait till you hear what it is. The loan of your car. You and Methos can sleep here tonight, or I can call a cab for you -"

"Don't be concerned about us!" The same response, in slightly different words, came from both men at once.

But Methos went on to ask, "Where are you going, MacLeod?" He'd obviously guessed it was important.

"All right," MacLeod conceded, "I'll tell you. Now that I'm back in Paris, I don't intend to waste any time. I've already prepared myself for what's coming, as best I can.

"I thought...something might happen...if I returned to the place where I first encountered Ahriman. But I'm sure now that it won't, even if you leave and I stay here alone.

"The place I need to be is where I _last_ encountered him! At the old racetrack. I've already confirmed that it's still there."

After a moment's shocked silence, both his friends began demanding to go with him. As he'd expected.

"No," he said firmly. "I'm the Champion, remember? This is _my_ battle, mine alone."

Methos asked, "Do you at least have your sword?"

"Yes," MacLeod assured him.

 _But only because an Immortal feels undressed without one. I won't be using it to fight a demon._

 _I know better now._

x

x

x

When he drove up to the abandoned racetrack - after dark - he felt an eerie sense of _deja vu_. All was as it had been; he even parked in the same spot, albeit in a different car.

But he was not, of course, there for the same reason.

In 1997, Richie Ryan had been the only one of his friends who'd believed that he was being compelled to fight a demon, the Zoroastrian Ahriman. And that Ahriman was taking the form of Joe's brother-in-law, James Horton - a murderous rogue Watcher, whom MacLeod had killed.

MacLeod had received a frantic phone call from Richie - telling him he'd seen "Horton" speed by in a car, holding Joe at gunpoint. He was following on his motorcycle, sure they were headed for the old racetrack. He'd hung up before MacLeod could tell him the real Joe - and Methos - were with him!

MacLeod had dashed off to give chase. In case he'd been wrong in thinking Richie had actually disconnected, he'd quickly asked the others to tell him - if he came back on the line - that he, MacLeod, was headed for that racetrack. Under the circumstances, fearing for Richie, he couldn't take time to tell them what was going on. They'd already thought he was deranged; if they _weren't_ able to talk to Richie, this wild tale would only seem to confirm it.

When he'd arrived at the racetrack - abandoned for years - he'd been met with the weird sight of a moving escalator. Going _down_. And sitting on it, a dark figure that appeared to be Richie... But when the figure looked up, its eyes were red, like glowing coals.

Then the experience had entered the realm of nightmare. MacLeod had been attacked by a half-dozen "Richies" _and_ a half-dozen "Kronoses" - cruelly mocking him at one moment, striking out at him with swords the next. (And he _knew_ the real Kronos was dead.) Unprepared for this, driven to distraction, he'd understandably tried to defend himself by flailing out at them with his sword. Trying unsuccessfully to take their heads.

Then he'd come face to face with a "Richie" who actually _wasn't_ making any threatening move.

At that point, he'd been beyond rational thought.

So he'd struck out at this "apparition" in the same way.

And moments later, found himself receiving a Quickening.

That experience had all but shattered him. But now he stood where he'd stood before, near the bottom of the escalator. This time, it wasn't moving.

 _Did you think you'd won, Ahriman? That I'd never be back?_

 _Well, here I am._


	5. Chapter 5

As if on cue, another figure appeared. Standing on the escalator - just far enough up that he'd seem to tower over MacLeod - was Ahriman. Once again in the guise of James Horton.

MacLeod frowned. "You're doing a disservice to the late Mr. Horton. He was never really evil - not in thrall to you, as you'd probably like me to believe. He'd become obsessed with the idea that Immortals want to enslave and rule humanity - something that wouldn't have occurred to him if there hadn't been a few who did want that. Unfortunately, his obsession went so far that it cost him his sanity."

"And you relieved him of his life," Ahriman pointed out.

"Yes, but only because it was necessary. He posed a threat not only to Immortals, but to mortals who disagreed with him and might have exposed him. Like his daughter's fiance...whom he murdered."

"Was it 'necessary,' MacLeod, for you to kill Richie Ryan?"

MacLeod had expected this. And he had his answer ready.

"The memory of my having killed Richie tormented me for years. I felt extraordinarily guilty because I thought that in spite of everything you'd done to distract me, I should have realized the figure I struck out at was the real Richie. Realized it because the figure was just standing there, not wielding his sword in a menacing way.

"But now I've realized _I never sensed that figure as an Immortal!_ So it _wasn't_ the real Richie! And subconsciously, I'd known that."

He hadn't told Methos or Joe, for fear they'd doubt his sanity again. But the truth had begun coming to him almost immediately after his "Amadeus" vision. The body buried as Richie's had probably vanished when the coffin was closed. And the glove he'd cherished as Richie's hadn't been stolen; it had vanished while he slept, because it was no more real than the body!

"I'm sure I never would have killed the real Richie. But you'd gotten me so overwrought that I didn't remember what really happened. Especially after you faked a Quickening. I didn't even realize it when another Immortal friend arrived on the scene, and I sensed _him_."

Ahriman sneered. "You're claiming I could fake a _Quickening_ , but not this 'sense'?"

"I'm not merely 'claiming' it," MacLeod said calmly. "I'm stating it as fact. You could easily have learned about the appearance and content of Quickenings, and heard Immortals describe how it feels to receive one. But that simple 'sense' is something no Immortal can describe! It may be different for every one of us."

Now Ahriman came back with, "If you didn't kill Richie Ryan, where is he? Where has he been all these years?"

"I'm not saying he isn't dead," MacLeod replied, "though I hope he isn't. What I am sure of is that I didn't kill him. And also, that you didn't kill him - because if you _could_ kill an Immortal, you would have taken the precaution of killing that other friend of mine, long ago.

"What I'm guessing is that you played the same trick on Richie that you did on me, probably at the other end of the racetrack. Made him believe _he'd_ killed _me_."

 _I would have taken the body, buried it in secret somewhere, and fled... I wouldn't have wanted to face anyone I knew, ever again._

"If that happened, he may have fled to another part of the world. I may never learn the truth. But I know I didn't kill him, and I can always hope to see him again."

Was it his imagination, or had the seemingly solid body of Ahriman flickered and faded for a moment before it solidified again?

He resumed his verbal attack on the demon.

"You couldn't kill the Immortal friend who was searching for me. And you underestimated the Watchers...probably because Immortals and Watchers had never cooperated before.

"We are cooperating now, and I've deciphered ancient texts that hadn't been read for thousands of years. In addition to what I've actually read, they've helped me better understand things I learned from the previous Champion's Quickening. So I know the rules of this once-in-a-millennium struggle, at least as well as you do.

"You can only have an outright 'win' if a Champion yields to some kind of temptation - either something as crass as the promise of wealth, or a 'reunion' with lost loved ones. Really, just thought-form replicas. Then the Champion would be your slave for a millennium. Assuming no one beheaded him! But I'm guessing no Champion has ever been corrupted, and you know it.

"The Champion can only have an outright 'win' if he resists any temptations, _and_ renounces the unnecessary use of violence. I've already, informally, done that. I only kill in self-defense, to protect others" - that had been at least partially the case with his killing of Horton - "or to protect the _world_ from fearsomely dangerous Immortals. And that's true of most Champions.

"There is a middle ground. If the Champion resists temptations but doesn't renounce the unnecessary use of violence, he won't become your slave, but you will wield more power throughout the next millennium.

"And there's another option, especially likely to come into play if the Champion hasn't been properly 'prepared.' If you choose not to go the 'temptation' route - knowing it almost certainly won't work - you can try instead to drive the Champion insane. That would deprive the world of all the _good_ that Immortal might have done in the future.

"In this case, you almost succeeded in pulling it off.

"But in the end, you failed.

"And I understand now that the pact you made with those long-ago Zoroastrian sorcerers limited your powers! If you can't corrupt and enslave a Champion, you won't be able to corrupt and enslave _any_ Immortal for the next millennium."

Ahriman seemed to flicker and fade again. And then...though he hadn't taken a step, and the escalator hadn't visibly moved, he was no longer "towering over" MacLeod; they were on the same level.

But he wasn't going to be gracious in defeat. He said haughtily, "It's true that you've achieved a small victory. And it's also true that I can't kill you.

"But otherwise, you're no better than those puny mortals! You have to live with the knowledge that any day of your life may be your last. Even a mortal can kill you, if he understands that it has to be done by beheading.

"Despite your 'victory,' you can no more kill me than I can you. I existed before the oldest Immortal, and I'll still exist when the Watchers' Chronicles have crumbled to dust."

"I realize I can't... _eliminate_ you," MacLeod acknowledged. "I wish I could. But I've come to understand what you are. You're just a thought-form, created and maintained in existence by people's beliefs!

"I've heard a saying that goes like this: 'The Devil's best trick is convincing people he doesn't exist.'

"In fact, the _opposite_ is true. The Devil's best trick - _your_ best trick - is convincing people you _do_ exist.

"When people repeat that old saying, they usually don't mean it literally. They don't believe in a being with horns. But what they do tend to believe is that 'Evil' - with a capital 'E' - actually exists, as some kind of 'force' in the world. And that 'force' tries to keep us from realizing we're doing things that are morally wrong.

"In my opinion, that's not a healthy attitude, because it's a way of denying responsibility for one's own actions.

"I don't believe in you, as a personification of 'Evil.' But I know you'll exist until almost all humans _stop_ believing in you, by one name or another. That long - no longer!"

Ahriman was fuming. "If I'm not real, your 'God' isn't real either. He's a 'thought-form,' just like me. Existing only because of people's beliefs!"

MacLeod nodded. "Yes, that may be true. I've come to realize that it _doesn't matter_ , at least for moral purposes, whether there is or isn't a 'God.'

"A superior Being may or may not have created the Universe. But we don't need a deity to tell us what's morally right or wrong. It all boils down, really, to recognizing that we're one species, Immortals possibly a subspecies...that we're related to all other life-forms...and that we should treat all living things as we'd wish to be treated."

 _And if 'God' is just that kind of thought-form, reflecting humans' beliefs, no one has any more right to speak for 'Him' than anyone else..._

"With more and more people - especially in North America and Europe - becoming nonreligious, I'm guessing you'll be gone before the end of the _next_ millennium."

Ahriman didn't try to respond. He now seemed _smaller_ than MacLeod...and he was flickering and fading again.

MacLeod suddenly knew - intuitively - what he could and should do next.

"Ahriman! _**I command you**_ to restore the people you've killed to life! Jason Landry, his granddaughter Allison, and the man you killed in the Iraqi tomb...Foster. Restore them to life _back in 1997 -_ in Foster's case, 1996 _-_ exactly as they were!"

A mumbled, "As you say."

Ahriman suddenly disappeared...and reappeared, a moment later.

Hanging his head, he said, "It's done."

And MacLeod knew that it was.

Ahriman looked up - obviously defeated, obviously humiliated. "Am I free to go?"

 _ **"Go."**_

x

x

x

He vanished. And a shaken MacLeod found himself standing alone at the foot of a dark, long-unused escalator.

 _After all this...I can't believe it's really over..._

Suddenly, he sensed another Immortal.

 _Methos?_

But the man who raced up to him wasn't Methos.

"Mac! I'm so glad you're here! I know Ahriman brought Joe here, but I haven't been able to find them!"

 _"Richie?"_ MacLeod was stunned. "Wh-what?"

Before either of them could say another word, he sensed still another Immortal.

This time it _was_ Methos. And he was accompanied by Joe Dawson...a _fortysomething_ Joe Dawson.

MacLeod sat down on the escalator. If he hadn't, he might have collapsed.

x

x

x

By the time he'd caught his breath, Richie had learned Ahriman/"Horton" never had abducted Joe. And Richie's story had convinced Methos and Joe - finally - that Ahriman was real. (Or as "real" as a thought-form could be.)

As he got shakily to his feet, the others clustered around him. Methos and Joe were apologizing for not having believed him. And everyone was asking questions. "What happened?" "What's _going to_ happen?" Most urgently: _"Are you all right?"_

"I'm fine!" he assured them. "If I seem sort of - 'out of it' - it's because I just had...the most astounding experience of my life. Before you got here, I confronted Ahriman. And I defeated him!

"I'll have to give some thought to how much I should tell you. But believe me, it's over. No Immortal will have to face him again for a thousand years. Probably not even then."

Still feeling eerily out of place, he looked down at himself...

He'd been wearing a simple jacket, rather than the Immortal's standard raincoat. Considering where he was going, and why, he'd felt no need to conceal his sword.

The sword was still on the floor, where he'd laid it.

And he was still wearing a jacket.

But he was sure it _wasn't_ the one he'd been wearing when he arrived at the racetrack.

A different jacket?

He quickly unbuttoned it...and realized all his clothing was different.

 _Must be what I was wearing back then. But..._

There'd been something in one of his pockets. Something he'd so wanted to keep!

He reached into the pocket of _this_ jacket...and yes, it was there.

The glove he'd been given by those Malaysian monks.

He pulled it out, felt tears welling up in his eyes as he caressed it...and then saw Richie staring curiously at him. Richie, wearing both _his_ gloves - used for gripping the handlebars of a motorcycle.

He smiled at Richie, and murmured, "I'll tell you about the glove later, okay?"

 _And yes, I will be able to tell him, now that I know I never killed him. In_ _ **any**_ _reality._

He was still finding it hard to understand that "back then" was, somehow, _now_.

So before they adjourned to Le Blues Bar - which had been closed - he whispered to Richie, "I've been through things that left me sort of - confused. Could you tell me what today's date is? The full, exact date?"

"Uh - of course, Mac. It's May 19th, 1997."


	6. Chapter 6

Under the circumstances, Le Blues Bar was the one place that felt like "home" for all of them. They tried to relax, actually had drinks.

And after an hour or so, MacLeod was able to tell the others the long, harrowing story of how he'd been tricked into believing he'd killed Richie, and had then fled - living like a wild animal, or worse. Seeking only to get farther and farther away from his once-beloved Paris. How the monks had taken him in, but he'd continued to torture himself for another decade. How, finally, he'd been saved by a _miracle_...but a miracle that couldn't have happened without the heroic efforts of Methos and Joe.

And then how he, restored to sanity, had been able to decipher ancient records unearthed by the Watchers. As Methos had hoped, his understanding them had also improved his understanding of what he'd learned from the hermit's Quickening.

"Knowing all that," he explained, "I realized Ahriman hadn't defeated me. Not in even a partial way. I hadn't used unnecessary violence in striking out at those apparitions - I hadn't thought of them as living men. Even if I _had_ thought they were living men, I'd been driven to believe I was going mad, and I was too agitated to be morally responsible.

"At last I saw the truth. _Ahriman could only become the victor if I despaired - permanently - and_ _ **accepted**_ _him as the victor."_

Finally, he told his friends he'd been stunned at finding himself back in the era in which he'd first encountered the demon. Surprised, but overjoyed.

"This _proves_ I defeated him. I received an unexpected _**reward!**_ _"_

There were a few things he didn't tell them.

Later, none of them would remember whether they'd been so exhausted that they had, at some point, fallen asleep in their chairs. But they were still there, wide awake, at daybreak. And they all agreed on what they should do next: pile into Joe's car - in which they'd returned from the racetrack, with Methos driving - and go to look at the barge.

They found that the name on it was "Amadeus."

They spent more hours together aboard the barge, relaxing and talking. But at last they went back to the racetrack, so MacLeod could get his car (yes, the one he'd driven when he went there the _first_ time), and Richie his motorcycle.

MacLeod had quietly signaled to Methos that he wanted him to stay with him, when Richie and Joe went their separate ways.

x

x

x

An hour later, MacLeod and Methos were sitting in chairs on the deck of the barge, sharing an excellent red wine. On a beautiful May afternoon that seemed to be proclaiming, "All's right with the world!"

It was Methos who spoke up. "So you have more to say, for my ears only? I don't know whether to be flattered or horrified."

MacLeod grimaced. "Maybe both."

He began by telling Methos how he'd insulted Ahriman by calling him a mere "thought-form," Ahriman had shot back that if he was a "thought-form," _God_ was one as well...and he'd readily agreed.

"I didn't want to get into that with Joe and Richie, because I know Joe's a devout Catholic. And Richie was raised Catholic, though I don't know whether he's still practicing. I'm sure I won't be offending you.

"I thought of myself as a Catholic until...well, this seems longer ago for me than it will for you! But I think it was after the death of Darius. I didn't 'lose my faith because God let Darius die' - nothing that dramatic. It was more as if a friend with whom I'd shared an interest had moved away. And after he was gone I'd sort of drifted away from that interest, until a time came when I no longer cared about it at all.

"It was only when I was replying to Ahriman that I realized what I was saying was what I actually believed. Had believed for a long time."

Methos gave a slow nod. "I can understand that. But then, how can you also believe you were saved by a miracle in which you were called 'beloved of God'?"

"I wondered about that," MacLeod admitted. "But then I realized something else. The word 'Amadeus' can mean _either_ 'beloved of God' or 'one who loves God.' Or perhaps, really, what he perceives 'God' as _representing?_ Hopefully, in my case, truth, justice tempered with mercy, empathy and concern for others?

"When I was in that monastery, I was so obsessed with my own unworthiness that I couldn't function at all. Not consciously. But I think now that _subconsciously_ , I actually reached out and _sent that 'message,' in all its forms, myself!_ To _save_ myself _._ By reminding myself of...not, maybe, who I am, but who I want to be. Telling myself I had to keep fighting for the ideals I believe in.

"And because I didn't know what I was doing, I also sent the 'message' into the past. Even decades into the past.

"I'm not imagining I have 'powers' others don't have. Possibly, _in an extreme situation_ , someone's mind, _anyone's_ mind, _may_ be able to _..._ even make real, visible changes. Like the name on the barge."

Methos murmured, " 'Someone or something'..." He'd been told what his future self had said.

He thought for several minutes. Then nodded, and said decisively, "I believe you. I'm sure that's what happened.

"And knowing you as well as I do...I'm sure you would have rediscovered yourself, and claimed your victory over Ahriman, even if you had killed Richie."

x

x

x

As the sun sank lower in the sky, MacLeod said, "I was surprised, today, at no one's asking me for details about the future I visited."

Methos thought for a moment, then said, "I can only speak for myself. But I think I was assuming it was bad, with Ahriman free to wreak havoc. And I thought you might have experienced very little of it, because you were so... _impaired_ , for most of the time you were there. But however horrible it was, everything would have been set right when you defeated Ahriman."

MacLeod said softly, "Yes, it was 'bad'...

"And it's true that I only have a clear understanding of the last few months - a clear _memory_ , of much less than that. But what I do remember, and heard from others, is unforgettable. I need to share it.

"In the monastery, _you_ told me the world seemed to be 'going to hell in a handbasket.' And you were right.

"A civil war was raging in the Middle East, and intervention by outsiders was making it worse. International terrorist groups, with religious agendas, were striking there - and, it seemed, everywhere. Even different sects within the same major religion were being targeted. And individuals were becoming terrorists, in part because they'd seen their _innocent_ religious brethren being stigmatized and mistreated.

"Conditions in the Middle East had led tens of thousands to flee - or try to flee - their homelands. But many were spurned by the governments of countries that could and should have taken them in. Probably against the will of the decent majorities in those countries. There were protests everywhere. While the 'leaders' who'd discouraged potential refugees hypocritically denounced the slaughter that was still going on.

"It had become a world in which no minorities, of any kind, could feel safe. And no country that fancied itself a democracy could be sure its election outcomes weren't being influenced by a foreign dictator.

"Worst of all, dangerous demagogues were in positions of power, in far-flung parts of the world. Those 'so-called Presidents' posed a real threat to the planet - because they were incompetent, totally irresponsible, and at least one had access to nuclear weapons."

The sun slipped below the horizon.

And MacLeod concluded, "The reason I wanted to talk to you alone, Methos? It wasn't just because we see eye to eye on religion.

"Richie and Joe are _both_ too young to be burdened, now, with knowing everything I just told you.

"Because it wasn't Ahriman's doing! He never would have had the power to bring about major changes in the world, even if he'd defeated and enslaved me. So my defeating him didn't change a thing.

"Like it or not, what I just described is the world we really will have to cope with...in 2017."

x

x

The End

x

x

 _ **Afterword:**_ _I'll acknowledge that I've always disliked the storyline of the Ahriman Trilogy. In my opinion, its only redeeming feature is some very good acting. From a critique I've posted elsewhere:_

 _"The heart of its muddled theology: In a last-ditch attempt to rouse Mac to anger, Ahriman hisses at him, 'I'm a part of you now!' He's not just saying he and Mac - two separate entities - share some characteristics. He's claiming he's actually 'part of' Mac._

 _"And Mac replies mildly, 'You always were.' Meaning - as he later tells Joe - that Ahriman is 'part of' every human._

 _"But if_ _ **what 'Ahriman' represents**_ _\- a capacity for hatred, cruelty, unnecessary violence, self-serving treachery - is inextricably 'part of' every human (in other words, part of human nature), it can't simultaneously be a supernatural Being capable of dominating the world for a thousand years if he defeats a single Champion! In a well-written story, you can't have it both ways."_

 _Given that..._

 _I_ _ **have**_ _always been fascinated by the name-change on the barge - and by "Amadeus" being a name starting with "A," like the names of episodes in the Trilogy. The real-world basis for the name-change was that while filming the series, the producers had to substitute a second barge for the one they'd originally used. But what we saw really was strange. When the name "Amadeus" unexectedly appeared, it was as if they_ _ **wanted**_ _us to notice it. After that, when viewers were seeing it, no characters would be looking at it. Most fans seem to have accepted that MacLeod made the change when a fire supposedly damaged the barge in one episode, and he had to make repairs. But as far as I know, the name-change was never mentioned. And I'm sure that in a later episode, I saw "Nobile" again (the real-world explanation probably being that it was stock footage)._

 _And I've never understood what we were meant to believe MacLeod was_ _ **sensing**_ _\- with all those apparitions, and then, the supposedly real Richie._

 _When he first briefly sees "Kronos" aboard the barge, there's no hint that he's sensing an Immortal. The experience has always struck me as being wholly visual. But is he, later, sensing all those apparitions as Immortals?_ _ **Why then, if not before?**_ _And if he_ _ **isn't**_ _sensing them as Immortals, how can he not realize there's something different about the real Richie?_

 _Was it intended that Ahriman had magically prevented his sensing Richie? That's the best explanation of what we saw: there's_ _ **never**_ _a moment when he clearly reacts to sensing one or more Immortals. But it surely would have lessened the guilt he'd feel...and the writers didn't want that._

 _I'm guessing they were aware the scene didn't make sense (no pun intended), and that's why they didn't even try to explain it. In my "Origins" series, I had a plot reason for establishing that Ahriman in all those forms could be sensed as an Immortal; here, I had a plot reason for going the other way._

 _According to Wikipedia, "Archangel" first aired on May 19, 1997. Somewhere. Certainly not in my area!_

 _No one who read my short fic "By Any Other Name" will be surprised by my indictment of the year 2017. However..._

 _While David Abramowitz says on the series DVD that the writers considered having Methos and Joe find MacLeod in Malaysia after "thirty or forty years," I saw never-aired footage at a convention in which it really was said to be_ _ **twenty**_ _years. But they didn't find him in the dire conditon I put him in! Guess I'm a sadist._

 _Finally, a purely geographical note: I used dramatic license regarding the view from the southernmost tip of the Malay Peninsula. In reality, there almost certainly would have been heavy traffic on the water; and the Port of Singapore, on a nearby island, might actually have been visible._


End file.
